


More Than Words

by NeoVenus22



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoVenus22/pseuds/NeoVenus22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"So," said the Doctor, "did you do anything I wouldn't do?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Words

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: 3x02, 'The Shakespeare Code'

This, Martha thought, was the weirdest thing to ever happen to her. Which said a lot, given her past twenty-four hours (roughly, anyway, how did one measure the overall passage in time when one went back in time?). She was perched at the edge of the empty stage of the Globe Theatre, while Shakespeare, _ the_ William Shakespeare, was rubbing at her cheek with his ink-stained fingers and whispering to her. Martha was too stunned to pay much attention, but she figured it was just as well; her other encounters with him had left a little to be desired. He wasn't terribly romantic, just horny.

There was nothing worse than a horny genius.

Except he was pretty good-looking, considering that she'd grown up used to that scowling illustration of a greasy, elderly, irritable man that had haunted her in bookstores, glaring and ordering her to enjoy King Lear. This man, this Shakespeare, oozed sex appeal in a way that should have bothered her, but didn't.

Shakespeare ran his hand from her knee to her thigh. She slapped at his fingers and demanded, more shocked than indignant, "Are you gettin' fresh with me?"

"Nonsense," he said, returning his hand quickly to her knee and breathing in her ear, "it is you who are fresh, fresh as a..."

So help her, if he mentioned any sort of flower, she was going to slap him.

"...the trail of ink on a new page," he concluded after a moment's pause.

"Right," she said. It was nice and all, but she wasn't crazy. Gorgeous though he was (she could admit that to herself), she was not the sort of girl who would be so easily swept away. Martha scooped his hand into her own and promptly relocated it to the warm wood of the stage. "I don't think so."

He was undeterred. "Didn't you say that in Freedonia, a woman can do whatever she wants?"

Martha had vague memories of saying something along those lines, but...

"And do you not want me?" he whispered.

She had to laugh at that. "Wow, you're really stretching, aren't you?"

"It's my job to bend and stretch words and definitions," said Shakespeare softly, breath blowing hot against the fine hair on her neck. Hot and quite rancid, actually; Martha recoiled automatically and tried to breathe through her mouth.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just... your, um," and she pointed at her mouth. She had half a mind to jam the Doctor's weird alien toothbrush in there.

But to her surprise, Shakespeare only grinned. "I see. No matter there. I am a genius, after all. I'm sure I could be inspired to find other uses for my mouth." Then he kissed her neck, finding a soft spot just below her jaw that made her shudder involuntarily. Not bad at all.

After a few minutes, he moved lower still, his tongue scraping the side of the necklace her mother had given her before sliding down between what he could see of her breasts. He had a heady power to him, one Martha realized she didn't have a clue how to resist, even if she wanted to.

Maybe it was pointless to resist. Despite herself, she felt her resolve weakening, the tiny voice of a long-repressed inner Martha begging to come out and play. The same one that had insisted she follow the Doctor into his crazy police box. After all, this was most definitely a once in a lifetime thing. Tomorrow she'd be back in her flat and this trip would be done, over, something she'd never forget, but just a memory all the same. She should at least make the memory beyond impressive. Right?

Shakespeare's tongue slid over the scalloped lines of the itchy lace trim on her bra. The underwear was pretty but impractical, good for a party but not well suited for running about and fighting witches. On the other hand, it sort of fit in. Shakespeare certainly didn't notice the difference, or care.

She wanted to scream at him, "Do you know how completely mad this is? Do you know how famous you are?" But she had the distinct feeling she wasn't supposed to say anything about her time. The Doctor had been casual enough about it, perhaps to dissuade her worry about the teeny-tiny things that might break the future as they knew it, but she had the feeling telling someone their future, informing Shakespeare what sort of legend he'd become, was less of a teeny-tiny thing and more like an enormous thing.

"Tell me, Miss Martha Jones," purred the Bard, and Martha found herself shivering a little. Not from anything Shakespeare had done, but because she'd heard those exact same words from the Doctor. The memory added a heavy, guilty sobriety to the situation, until Martha reminded herself sternly she had nothing to feel guilty about. The Doctor had bloody well made it clear she was something of a footnote to him. And what was she doing wasting her time even _considering_ falling for a slightly insane, not to mention utterly uninterested man, just because he'd whisked her off on a jaunt through time? It was no different than leaving a party with a bloke just because he had a nice car.

Okay, so maybe it was quite a bit different.

"Mm?" said Shakespeare, and Martha realized with a stab of completely unrelated guilt that he'd just asked her a question and she'd been paying no attention whatsoever.

"I'm sorry, what?" She punctuated it with a nervous sort of smile.

Shakespeare just grinned. "Distracting you, am I?" he said, his fingers against the small of her back. They were nice, warm spots surrounded by the cool air drifting up under her shirt. "That is more than fine. We don't have to talk."

"Not something I thought I'd hear you say," she cracked. A deep relaxation trailed up her spine following his ministrations.

"I've learned that poetry is not just ink on parchment, but it must stem from somewhere else, the realm of the physical, for it to truly take weight."

Which was actually pretty nice, although not quite as nice as the pattern his fingers were stroking into her skin, feather-light. His hands were rough, they were stained with ink and dirt and who knew what else, but damn if they didn't know what they were doing. Martha hadn't thought herself to be so weak, but then again, she'd never had someone touch her quite in this fashion, at least, not in awhile, and certainly never while reciting Shakespearean pseudo-poetry inspired by her. Actual Shakespearean poetry.

She undid her bra for him out of pity. She'd have hated to see one of the greatest minds in the world flummoxed by modern-day undergarment technology. Although she always had a bad feeling about the ones who fumbled when it came to bra-undoing. If they couldn't work a simple hook and eye (which she could do, quite literally, with her hands behind her back and both eyes closed), then it didn't speak well for anything else they'd have to do with their hands.

Although she suspected Shakespeare wouldn't have much of a problem. He cupped her breasts in his hands, eying them appreciatively. "Magnificent," he pronounced, which maybe wasn't _entirely_ true, but nice to hear, nonetheless. He lowered his head to her chest and flicked a tongue knowingly over a nipple. His praise was much nicer to feel; Martha closed her eyes and let him work her with his tongue.

"Mm, yes."

After a bit, though, it became more entertaining for her to watch, taking it all in as he ran his hands down her torso, as he blew hot air reverently over her stomach, as he worked to undo her pants. Martha lost herself in the sensation, gathering her wits only long enough to slide her hand down the front of his breeches and grab the hardness there. She found herself suddenly very urgent in her need, and she knew what Shakespeare did not: that time was of the essence.

"I appreciate it when a lady knows what she wants," he said.

"I want you right now," she answered, surprising herself with her frankness, but starting to see everything through a lusty haze.

Shakespeare only laughed at her forwardness and said, "As the lady wishes."

She was struck by the sheer heat of him, amplified by, or perhaps the cause of, his Elizabethan funk. A part of her, the clinical part that liked to scrub in and change her gloves regularly, wanted to be properly horrified, but that tiny voice of inner Martha, getting louder and more anxious, pointed out logically that she was supposed to be going with the flow, and reminded her she'd slept with partners who had far worse things going for them than period hygiene. Besides, he was well-dressed, brilliant, sexy as hell, and for what it was worth (and it was worth a lot, incidentally), he knew what he was doing.

Martha couldn't help a moan when he entered her, stretching her lips around his mouthful of a name until he kissed her jaw line and said, "I insist, call me William."

So she did, chanting, "Will, Will, Will," as she raised her legs up his body and linked them around his waist, pulling him in tighter, harder, deeper. Martha grunted in a decidedly unfeminine and unflattering way, her back arching, her fingers pressing into his shoulders, her hips rolling and rising to meet his as she fell over that glorious edge.

"There is," William said, struggling to talk amid the staccato breaths that accompanied his quickening thrusts, "no greater pleasure on this earth than watching a woman fall apart in such a fashion." With that, he extracted himself from her slack legs, pulling himself free from her hold, and coming messily across her thigh. That was birth control for you, Martha thought to herself with a post-coitus giggle, feeling quite high as William dropped a kiss to her breast. "My apologies, Martha."

"Nothing to apologize for," she said. It wasn't as though she couldn't clean herself. And besides, the sticky residue made it seem real, and not some crazy dream she'd cooked up.

"I regret you having to leave, Miss Martha Jones," said William, splayed naked beside her as she started looking for her clothes. "You are truly extraordinary. But I'm very glad you agreed to share this with me."

He was stretching a bit with the whole 'extraordinary' thing, Martha thought, although she knew she wasn't bad in bed, and she wasn't bad in other respects, either. But it didn't really matter. "You know what?" she said. "So am I."

* * *

"So," said the Doctor, unfairly casual, "did you do anything I wouldn't do?"

"What, you mean pick up a stranger and haul them off in my time-travel machine?"

The Doctor smirked at her, and she was immensely relieved to have scored the point, maybe her first. "I don't think I did anything to alter the course of history, if that's what you're asking," she said. He continued to smile ruthlessly, eyebrows raised a smidgen, waiting for more that Martha wasn't planning on granting. "A lady," she said deliberately, "never kisses and tells."

"Ah, so there was kissing." He seemed positively amused, not at all irritated or jealous. Not that she wanted him to be jealous or anything. Just... well.

"I don't think this conversation is entirely appropriate," she attempted to deter him.

In her brief experiences with the Doctor, she'd found that he could be easily distracted by shiny things. Demented, mad things that only he considered interesting and absorbing, but nonetheless. It would figure he'd shed his attention deficit disorder when she most needed him to focus on anything else. He seemed to find the whole thing hilarious, and that bothered her quite a bit.

She supposed she could have just told him no, which was technically the truth. There hadn't been any actual kissing going on. But. She didn't want the Doctor think she was... Not that she _was_. How would she phrase the situation to Tish, awkward confessions over tea, slipped in between stories about Leo and stories about Mum?

Of course, that was hardly a fair comparison, since the Doctor was not her sister, and certainly not a girlfriend, and he was a stranger in most ways, and there were some things you just didn't share with strangers.

And, apparently, some things you did, she thought, images of Shakespeare creeping into her mind and heating her cheeks. She brushed past the Doctor before he could notice anything. "Let's go, shall we?"

"In a hurry to get away from me already?"

"Oh, you have no right to be so amused."

"And you have no right to be so defensive, unless you've gone and done something to be defensive about. Would your mother be ashamed?"

Martha could only vaguely imagine how that particular conversation would go: 'Hello, Mum. What did I do this weekend? Oh, just ended up on the moon, fought some space rhinoceri, climbed into a blue box with a strange man, went back in time, and had public sex with the greatest writer on the planet. No, Mum, not Jackie Collins.' Lovely.

What she said was, "We're not discussing this."

"You are an enigma, Martha Jones," he said, with a smirk in his voice that sounded suspiciously, and inexplicably, like delight. "Ah, you'll tell me eventually." With that cheerful note, he bounded aboard the blue box, leaving Martha perplexed behind him.

'Eventually?' It sounded like a promise. Martha couldn't wait to collect.


End file.
